


A Fairytale in London

by EnduringChill



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Music, Christmas Party, First Kiss, Fluff and Crack, Friendship/Love, Insecure Sherlock, Karaoke, Love Confessions, M/M, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 03:52:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5524379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnduringChill/pseuds/EnduringChill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John drags Sherlock up to sing karaoke at the Met Christmas Party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fairytale in London

**Author's Note:**

  * For [221BJen (jcoz1701)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jcoz1701/gifts), [Callie4180](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie4180/gifts).



> Thank you to Callie4180 and 221BJen who did a quick edit ON CHRISTMAS EVE!! These ladies rock as friends and editors. I love you guys!
> 
> I had this thought while listening to Christmas music in my car. Please excuse if it's not 100% executed. I started this morning and finished up through Christmas drama, a busy day at work, cleaning a house, and having a bit Mama Drama with my mother. I hope you enjoy this little ficlet. And I hope you all have a very Merry Christmas/Boxing Day.

It's a blended scotch, but it warms on the way down. The Met Christmas party is almost bearable after three pours of it. Almost. Sherlock feels fuzzy and a little numb, just enough to take the edge off his tongue. As far as parties go, this one isn't too bad. 

Until a yellowing spotlight hits a tiny stage in the corner of the pub and people clamour upon it to sing. It's bloody well awful. Sherlock considers taking this moment as a cue to leave. Perhaps he and John can pour a final drink for the night to revel in the evening’s festivities. They can chuckle over Molly and Greg in a darkened snug. They can ruminate about the poor choices being made at that very moment as inebriation fuels lust. Maybe John would finally give Sherlock a clear sign of attraction, something he could build on.

Sherlock sighs. That thought is silly and dangerous at the same time. John has been in various stages of inebriation with Sherlock, and never once has he shown a clear sign. And now, the good doctor is flush with beer, and Sherlock suspects a shot or two of something else, and cheering on the singers with hoots and enthusiastic clapping. If Sherlock leaves, it will be alone. 

Instead, he perches by the bar to nurse his last scotch and stares at the stage without really seeing anything. He ducks back into his mind palace to relive decorating the Christmas tree at Baker Street. Not since he was ten years old has he enjoyed Christmas. Once the magic dissipates, it is a garish holiday with terrible music and forced interaction with soppy people.

In fact, the only Christmases Sherlock has ever enjoyed have all included John Watson. Compared to the past, this holiday had been quiet. They had a small case, barely a five, but they had worked flawlessly together. John had anticipated Sherlock’s every step and deduction. It had been like a beautiful waltz, and left him such a feeling of euphoria that he had paused to purchase a Christmas tree. No number of ornaments or strands of lights could compare to the brightness of John’s face when he had seen Sherlock propping the fragrant tree in the sitting room. They had listened to god awful Christmas music as they strung lights and hung the few ornaments Sherlock had not broken in previous years. The afternoon had been tucked away in the mind palace in the room that had been reserved for Sherlock and John. Cases, tender moments, lovely things John had said, and the day they had met live in the most precious room.

He's so wrapped up in that room, he barely feels the tug on his shirtsleeve. When he blinks, John's beaming face is inches from his.

“It's our turn!”

Sherlock frowns and shakes his head. “Our turn?”

“To sing!” John’s cheeks are rosy from the shots and match his hideous Christmas jumper. 

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock falters.

“Put that on a shirt.” John wraps his hand around his arm to pull him off the barstool. “It’s our turn to sing!”

“You must be joking,” Sherlock scoffs.

John straightens his back with a very dire expression. “It’s Christmas karaoke. I do not joke about that.”

Heat rises in Sherlock’s cheeks. “You certainly don’t need me to make a fool of yourself up there.”

“It’s a duet. Of course I need you.” John’s fingers close around Sherlock’s hand. 

Before he fully realises it, he’s being pulled through the crowd to step on the tiny stage. It’s almost too small for them to share it, but John is undeterred. 

“Read there. You know this one. You said this one didn’t make you ill,” John points to the teleprompter to the side of the stage.

“I…” His protest falls on drunken ears as a microphone is shoved into his hand. All eyes are on Sherlock, even his singing partner John. He ventures that John has done this before, but watching Sherlock make an absolute tit of himself is new - and an early Christmas present to most at the party.

“I’ll be the girl,”John smiles.

Sherlock feels a swoon wash over him like a tragic heroine in one of the trashy novels Mycroft denies ever possessing. John is lit from within like the Christmas display at Harrod’s. Festive. Joyful. Beautiful. How can he deny this man anything?

“Fine.” He turns to the screen scrolling the words. 

He takes a deep breath.

“It’s Christmas Eve, in the drunk tank  
An old man said to me, won't see another one  
And then he sang a song  
The Rare Old Mountain Dew.”

Sherlock looks from the monitor to John.

“I turned my face away  
And dreamed about you…”

Heat floods his cheeks. Sherlock can’t tell if he’s in key or if his voice even sounds pleasant. A few mouths pop open in the crowd. 

“Got on a lucky one  
Came in eighteen to one..”

John shuffles closer to read the monitor. 

“I've got a feeling  
This year's for me and you..”

Swallowing the lump forming in his throat, Sherlock dares a glance to John.

“So happy Christmas  
I love you baby  
I can see a better time  
When all our dreams come true..”

Sherlock hates Christmas music. It is cheerful and syrupy. It is never about real life or emotions. Though Sherlock every attempt to tamp down the things he feels for John, the words that slip out of his mouth ring so true. Last year had been trying with consequences that had brought John home. Perhaps this year will be a time of rebuilding trust to something deeper.

John steps forward, crowding Sherlock’s space.

“They've got cars  
Big as bars  
They've got rivers of gold  
But the wind goes right through you  
It's no place for the old  
When you first took my hand  
On a cold Christmas Eve  
You promised me  
Broadway was waiting for me..”

John tips his face up to Sherlock.

“You were handsome…”

Sherlock can’t help a wink.

“You were pretty  
Queen of New York City..”

They turn to face each other as John joins Sherlock.

“When the band finished playing  
They howled out for more  
Sinatra was swinging  
All the drunks they were singing…  
We kissed on the corner  
Then danced through the night..”

John’s face turns scarlet as he giggles. 

“The boys of the NYPD choir  
Were singing 'Galway Bay'  
And the bells are ringing  
Out for Christmas day..”

“You're a bum  
You're a punk…”

John beams with the words. Sherlock nudges him.

“You're an old slut on junk  
Lying there almost dead  
On a drip in that bed…”

Playfully, John punches his arm.

“You scum bag  
You maggot  
You cheap lousy faggot  
Happy Christmas your arse  
I pray God  
It's our last..”

John winds his arm around Sherlock's waist as he turns to the crowd who raise their glasses to sing along.

“The boys of the NYPD choir  
Still singing 'Galway Bay'  
And the bells are ringing  
Out for Christmas Day!”

John grabs his beer to take a swig.

“I could have been someone..”

The words strike Sherlock in a way he had not expected.

“Well, so could anyone  
You took my dreams  
From me when I first found you…”

John’s smile falters a bit as Sherlock turns to him to stare directly into those deep blue eyes. 

This is a song about imperfect love, one that hurts and hopes. Christmas is only the backdrop.

“I kept them with me babe  
I put them with my own..”

Sherlock is certain that his heart is on his sleeve, splattered across his chest like an open wound, and written on his face like an sky high advertisment. 

“Can't make it all alone  
I've built my dreams around you..”

John not only sees it, but he registers exactly what Sherlock sings to him. His mouth drops open and misses the first line of the next verse.

“The boys of the NYPD choir  
Still singing 'Galway Bay'..”

With a smile that rivals the star on top of the tree at Rockefeller Center, John presses his hand between Sherlock’s shoulder blades.

“And the bells are ringing  
Out for Christmas Day!”

The room erupts in applause and cheers. Lestrade whistles through two fingers. Sherlock’s face is on fire from the heat in the stuffy pub and his own embarrassment. Yet, John’s grin is radiant. He gives Sherlock's arm a squeeze.

“Let's have one more, then go home.” He winks.

One drink feels like an eternity. They are embraced by friends and detectives when they hop off the stage. John pulls out a barstool for Sherlock but stands close enough for his arm to press against the detective's back. When he laughs, his body vibrates with joy and he cups Sherlock's shoulder affectionately. Before half his beer is gone, John places the bottle on the bar.

“We're off,” he announces to Lestrade and Molly. It makes them sound like a couple, and Sherlock shivers with the thought.

“Happy Christmas!” John pats Lestrade on the arm and leans forward to kiss Molly’s cheek. John’s hand rests on Sherlock's thigh, giving him a gentle squeeze before he moves away.

“Yes, Happy Christmas.” Sherlock manages a nod and a brief smile. 

He can't focus on anything beyond his thundering heart. All of a sudden, John is being tactile in a way he's only been with girlfriends. 

Automatically, Sherlock helps John into his drab green jacket. 

“Ta,” he winks and winds the blue scarf around Sherlock's neck. 

It's completely wrong and feels tight like a noose, but the gentle smile that tugs at the corners of John's mouth while he does it makes Sherlock consider asking him to always tie his scarf.

“Ready?” John asks.

“Since seven o'clock,” Sherlock replies dryly.

“Shut it. You had fun.” John leads the way.

An unusually warm December night greets them. Sherlock steps to the edge of the kerb and raises his arm for a taxi.

“I thought we'd walk a bit,” John suggests.

“That's fine.” Despite the warm weather, Sherlock stuffs his hands in his pocket.

They walk in uncomfortable silence for a few blocks. It's exactly the reason that Sherlock doesn't do this. They haven't been this out of sorts since he came back to life after two years. And after he disembarked from the plane after he very nearly confessed his thoughts with John's pregnant wife watching. 

John stops suddenly and grabs Sherlock's arm. “I'm going to burst. Did you mean that?”

“What exactly are you referring to?” He can barely hear John over his own heart pounding in his ears. He knows it's physiologically impossible for it to be his heart, but everything is speeding faster than he can process. Emotions are flying around like deductions at a crime scene.

“The words you sang. It felt so real, not just a laugh,” John speaks with considerable weight on each breath.

It's time, tonight under the half moon that hangs above the shops. He's been brave about many things like death, torture - even murder. Not with his emotions, not the unprotected flesh parts of him. He looks up to the sky in hopes that the right words will find him. Filling his lungs with air, he stares directly into John’s eyes. 

“It's real, everything. The pain, the happiness, the desire to touch you. All of it.” He closes his eyes. “For so long,” he takes a gulp of air. He can't get enough. “I've held it in and stood by.” The dam has released and floods John's ears with every thought and feeling. “All the girlfriends and Mary, oh God Mary. That wedding and baby. I think I was more relieved that it wasn't yours than you were. I've held my breath just hoping there could be a chance…”

John closes the gap between them. “Shhh.” The press of John's lips is not gentle but filled with longing. Sherlock parts his lips in anticipation of welcoming the warmth of John's tongue. It's velvety and silky, a thousand times better than what he's dreamt of. The tip traces the inside of Sherlock’s mouth. With a soft moan, Sherlock cups John's face to crush his mouth to his. If he could crawl inside this wonderful, amazing man, he would. 

“Let's go home,” John breathes against his skin. “I want to discover you all over again.”

“Oh god yes.” Sherlock falls forward to kiss him once more before John laces their fingers together. 

John's eyes shine when he parts slowly. Shaking his head with a chuckle. “I wonder what would've happened if we sang ‘Baby, It's Cold Outside.”


End file.
